The Quiet Hour
by dust on the wind
Summary: Three o'clock, the darkest, most silent time of the night. No, not silent - there's always something, if you listen...


_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes._

 _This story was originally prompted by Arvo Pärt's "Tabula Rasa - Silentium". First to admit it's a little experimental for me, so any feedback will be welcome._

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It's just on three o'clock. The moon, low in the west, is hidden behind clouds, and darkness lies across the camp.

Summer or winter, some instinct tells Karl when three o'clock passes. It's always been so, as long as he can remember. When he was a boy, he would rouse from his sleep every night, on the hour. He'd once heard his mother say it was the darkest and most silent time of the night, but he knew better. Quiet, he thought, but not silent, not at all. There was always some sound to be heard: the ticking of the little clock on the shelf, and his brother's soft even breathing in the next bed; from outside, a owl's call or the angry shriek of a cat, and the occasional far-off rumble of a train passing in the distance; and beneath all the rest, a faint, almost imaginary hum which seemed to come from the night itself. It was nice, he thought, to listen for a while, making up stories in his head about whatever he heard, until slumber took him away again. Night after night, the quiet hour made him feel comfortable and safe.

That was a long time ago. Now, when he wakes at night just on three to find himself in the barracks amongst the other guards, he doesn't want to listen. All he wants is to get back as soon as he can to the forgetfulness of sleep.

No such escape is available to him tonight, because he's on patrol; but he still senses when the hour reaches three o'clock.

The rain, which for the past week has made life miserable for everyone in Stalag 13, eased off around midnight, leaving a soft, damp haze behind. Karl has changed the route he walks around the camp, keeping to the higher ground as much as he can; but his boots still let water in with every squelching step. He skirts a muddy puddle behind Barracks 2, and pauses to listen for any sounds from within the hut, but he can't hear anything, and not so much as a gleam of light shows between the window shutters. If the prisoners are up to any mischief tonight, at least they're keeping it quiet.

At the end of the hut, he stops to watch as the searchlight, blurred by the mist, sweeps across the compound, briefly illuminating the dog pen before passing over the roof of the camp office. Karl knows from experience that even if the beam catches anything slightly amiss, the men will think twice before raising the alarm, for fear of the Kommandant's wrath if he is woken from his sleep, only to discover on investigation that everything in the camp appears to be in order. And it always is. Somehow, the only time there is anything amiss is when the prisoners want it that way.

The darkness seems heavier after the spotlight has passed. Karl resumes his beat, moving slowly to avoid running into any unseen obstacle while his eyes adjust to the absence of light. Without realising it, he finds himself listening for the sounds which deny the night's silence. A murmur of voices, as two of the other guards meet in the yard, reaches him; then the fluttering of the rain-soaked flag on its pole, caught by an errant draught of wind. One of the German Shepherds must be awake, because from the dog enclosure comes a soft, unhappy whining. Beyond the wire, the forest rustles and murmurs, singing an endless song which tugs at Karl's heart even as it sends a shiver along his spine.

He draws in a deep breath. It had never crossed his mind, since he had been here, that there was any reason for listening. He didn't want to; there was nothing in this place he wanted to hear. Now the quiet hour has taken him unawares, and it almost overwhelms him.

His eyelashes are heavy with tiny water droplets; condensation from the mist, of course, because what else could they be? He blinks them away, and looks towards the dog pen. The crying is getting louder; at intervals it almost breaks into a howl, then subsides to a whimper again. Karl can see the animal, pacing along the fence which encloses the kennels, gazing towards the quarter of the sky where, behind the clouds, the moon has almost set.

He has little to do with the guard dogs, so he doesn't know what she is called; he knows her only as the one who sometimes cries in the night.

She raises her nose and gives another throaty yowl. Something has to be done, otherwise she's going to rouse the Kommandant, and then everyone in camp – guards, prisoners and dogs alike - will pay for it. Besides, he can't ignore such distress. The wet gravel crunches under his boots as he crosses the yard to the pen.

"Hush," he whispers. "It's all right, don't be scared."

He can just make out her outline in the darkness; enough to tell that she is shivering. Cautiously, because her fear might cause her to snap at him, he puts his fingers through the fence and strokes the top of her head; then, as she presses her flank against the wire, getting as close to him as she can, he squats beside her and runs his hand over the solid, powerful muscles of her shoulder. The warm, damp smell of her fills his nostrils.

"Such a fuss, from such a big, brave girl," he murmurs. "You know it won't hurt you." She whimpers again, but she seems less anxious now he is there.

His rifle has slipped from his shoulder. He lets it rest against his knee, and cranes his head upward to look at the sky, searching for what she has already told him is there. He can't see anything for the clouds, but now he is listening for it, he can just hear the low far-off drone of an approaching aircraft.

The dog ducks her head, pushing her nose beneath his hand in search of reassurance; and she huddles against him as the noise gets nearer. Karl has never been able to tell the difference between the sound of a German plane and an Allied one, so this one could be friendly or hostile for all he knows. It doesn't matter either way, not to him, nor to the frightened animal beside him.

The sound drops in pitch as it passes overhead. Even though it can't be seen, both man and dog follow its trajectory with their eyes as well as their ears, until even the most distant resonance has died away.

Karl straightens up, and gives the dog a final caress between the ears. "You see? Now go to sleep, like a good girl." She nuzzles his hand, then gives herself a shake as if throwing off her fear, and pads away to join her sleeping kennel mates.

Almost four o'clock, and the quiet hour is passing. Karl shoulders his rifle and returns to his patrol. He glances up towards the eastern sky, but it's a long time yet till sunrise. Still, he feels somehow lighter at heart than he has for a long time. This cold, wet night has given him back something he thought was long gone. The world may have changed since his childhood, and even the night sounds are not the same as they were; but it doesn't matter. As long as he listens when three o'clock comes, he will always have his quiet hour.


End file.
